A/N: Sorry about the delay, guys. I've been traveling in the UK and finding time to write is harder than I thought.

Castle heaves a deep sigh and blinks, coming back to the world as he closes the word document and pulls his laptop shut. He's not sure what exactly he just wrote. It could be the first scene to the next Nikki Heat, could be something utterly unpublishable. Could be crap for all he knows. Two years without writing have made him self-conscious to the extreme, and typing that scene was a constant struggle with the sneering voice in his mind.

Nothing new there, he thinks as he stands up, works his stiff arms. He's had long stretches of writer's block before; he knows the feeling.

He checks his watch, is only half surprised to see it's almost eleven. He's gotta shower and get dressed, but first - first, he's going to find Kate.

She can't possibly be in bed this late. Nope. If he knows her at all, she'll have gotten up some time back, probably come out here to see what he was up to. He didn't hear her, but then again when he writes he doesn't hear much of anything.

He checks the kitchen first - empty - then hunts for her upstairs, tries the bathroom, their bedroom, the guest rooms one after the other.

Huh. No trace of Beckett.

He goes back down, that tight feeling in his chest. Don't be stupid. He probably just missed her; she was reading on the veranda and she didn't hear him, and now he's going to find her and feel like an idiot for-

But she's not there either. And he is dead to the world when he writes. Enough so that he could miss somebody getting inside the house - somebody taking her? No. No, come on. It's ridiculous. She's getting better; she would've fought back, called for him. He would've heard. Surely he would have heard.

"Kate!" He calls, looking around for a note, something. She leaves him notes when she goes out without him. But there's nothing on the kitchen table, nothing in the living room, nothing in his study.

Shit.

He's being silly. He's being silly and getting worked up over nothing, but what if she was right – what if Tyson really did fake his death again, and then came back for her? Fuck, no. He has to wrestle back a wave of nausea as he runs to the French door, yanks it open. "Kate!"

It's cold outside. It's freezing, in fact, and he's barefoot, but still he steps out with his arms crossed over his chest, his teeth chattering. "Kate?"

Oh, the pool. He hasn't checked the pool. A hysterical laugh builds in his chest – surely that's where she is, surely he's going to find her slicing through the water with her usual grace – and he jogs around the house, stumbling a few times because his feet are numb.

He knows even before he can catch a glimpse of the smooth, still water. She's an energetic swimmer; if he were right he'd be able to hear splashes, hear the steady rhythm of her strokes. But there's only silence. He stops by the side of the pool, breathless, his momentum crushed along with his last hope.

It's gotta be a dream, one of those ugly dreams that still haunt him; he's going to wake up. He's going to wake up and find Kate next to him, please let it just be a dream please-

"Castle?"

He whips around with a sob stuck in his throat, strides up to her, his fingers touching her shoulders, her neck, her hips before he crushes her to his chest. She's real, she's real and nothing else matters and Thank you God thank you. If he could meld their bodies, if he could take her into himself and carry her with him always-

"Castle, I'm having a little trouble breathing here."

Oh, right. He releases his hold at once, stepping back, and although his lungs are working again he can still taste the dark edge of despair in his mouth. "Shit, Beckett, you can't do that."

She raises her eyebrows, a defensiveness in her eyes that makes him want to grab her by the shoulders and shake her until she understands. "What are you talking about?"

"You can't leave the house without-" he sucks in a breath through his nose, tries to lower his voice. He won't get anywhere by yelling at her. "I thought we'd agreed to leave each other notes when we're stepping out. I didn't find one, and I got - worried." He only sounds a tiny bit pathetic. Not that he cares.

Kate presses her lips together. "Castle, I did leave you a note," she says gently, as if she thinks he's having a mental breakdown. "On the coffee table."

Coffee table? No. No. There was nothing there; he checked.

Or did he?

"Did you even look before you went into full panic mode?" The soft reproach in her voice is just - more than he can take.

"Yeah, actually, I did," he snaps. "I searched the whole fucking house for you, Kate, but I couldn't find you or that supposed note and I think with everything that happened you should know better than just leaving me-"

His words die in his mouth when she produces her phone from her pocket. "You could've just called me," she says, her eyes trained knowingly on his face.

Ah. He didn't - he didn't think of that.

His silence is as good as an admission, and there's a flash of sorrow across her face as she slips the phone back in her coat's pocket, reaches out for him.

He moves back.

He doesn't want her pity, doesn't want to be consoled. He wants to cling to his righteous anger and pretend for a moment longer that the feeling is justified. That he's not just losing his mind.

Beckett straightens her shoulders and frowns at him, opens her mouth to say something - he'll never know what, because right then there's a particularly nasty gust of wind and he shivers from head to toe, his thin cotton clothes doing nothing to protect him. She narrows her eyes. "This conversation is not over, Castle. But we're going to go inside now before you get pneumonia and I have to drag your sorry ass to the ER. And if you say no to me I will knock you out and drag you back into the house myself."

He does feel like protesting, but she's been going to her PT sessions pretty regularly and he thinks she'd be able to make good on her threat. So he swallows his pride, grits his teeth, and he leads the way back inside.

Castle ruffles his still-wet hair and leans into the kitchen doorframe, watching the ripple of muscle in Kate's back as she stirs something in a pan. It smells good, like tomato and garlic and something else, he thinks, but he's not sure what.

When they came back earlier she nearly pushed him in the shower, commanded him to warm up; he has to admit that he feels a lot better now, fresh clothes on, his body loosened by the hot water. But inside - inside his gut is still churning.

Over something that didn't happen. Was never going to happen.

What is wrong with him?

"Well don't just stand there, Castle," Kate says without turning. "Come give me a hand."

He smiles to himself – ever the detective – and moves forward, his heart eased by the way she includes him. "What're you making?"

"For me to know," she answers, flashing him that clever look that he loves. "Can you grab those carrots and wash them for me?"

"Yes m'am," he says, and even though she doesn't exactly turn to him he gets a vivid impression of her amusement. He does what he's told and then gets a chopping board out along with a knife. "I'm guessing the next thing I should do is slice them up."

"Your guess is accurate." The sound of that word in her mouth, all throaty consonants, is just plain dirty.

He takes in a deep breath and ignores the twitch in his pants, focuses on keeping his fingers whole. They work side by side in a comfortable silence broken only by the occasional instruction, and then Kate layers one preparation over the other in a dish, grates cheese on top. He watches curiously, catches himself before he can ask where she got that recipe. He doesn't want to be the one to break their silent truce.

She pushes the dish into the oven and closes the door, stands up again. Her eyes meet his with a seriousness that says it's time for their talk. "Feeling better?" she asks with a little arch of her eyebrow.

He gives her a rueful smile. "Yeah."

She reaches into her pocket, pulls out a small piece of paper that she holds up between two fingers. He takes it gingerly. "What's that?"

"My supposed note," she says, indicating quotation marks with her fingers. "I guess the wind must've swept it off the table when I went out. I found it on the floor." She doesn't say anything else, but he hears it anyway: on the floor isn't under the couch. If he'd been less panicked, had kept his brain from jumping to conclusions, he would probably have found it.

He traces her handwriting with the flat of his thumb and sighs. "Look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have gone off at you like that."

Her fingers wrap gently around his, stall his next words. He looks up and is amazed again at the richness, the depth of her eyes. "I don't want you to be sorry, Castle. This isn't about me - this is about you. You can't keep doing this to yourself."

He opens his mouth, doesn't know what to say.

"Please talk to Dr. Simmons about it. You know I'm right. I can't – this isn't okay. I shouldn't worry about your reaction every time I go somewhere on my own. And you can't just freak out every time I'm out of your sight. It's gotta be exhausting, Rick."

Yeah. It's not exactly like he can turn it off, but faced with her anxious, expectant face, he can't do anything but nod his acquiescence. "Yeah. I - yeah. You're right. I know."

She worries her bottom lip, flicks her eyes down before she drags them back up to his. "Castle. You don't have to carry that fear around like you're ashamed of it. I have those too, you know."

He pulls her to him, partly because he needs the warm reality of her body, partly because her tender, hesitant look is breaking his heart. She comes easily, nudges the line of his jaw with her nose, brushes her lips to the spot under his ear. "Remember," she murmurs. "Happened to both of us. Not just me."

"Not just you," he echoes obediently, but his throat closes up when he thinks of her tied to a bed, Tyson's knife dripping with her blood. It's just so hard sometimes to keep in mind that they're both victims in their own way.

She's long and lithe and perfect against him, her arms around his waist, her breaths caressing his neck; he grips her a little tighter than he should, a sudden stinging at his eyes. "If I lose you again," he starts, can't help himself, but then her hand is in his hair, her palm at his nape, a steady pressure that relieves the deep ache in his chest.

"Don't go there," she says, so fierce in her love. "I'm here now, Castle. Right here with you."

"I love you," he chokes out, and then he kisses her because the words are not enough - because nothing will ever be enough.

Kate balances the laptop on her thighs and then reaches for the cup that she perched on the arm of the couch, takes a careful sip. Castle's machine makes delicious coffee, dark and with so much flavor; she hums in appreciation as she lets it roll down her throat.

Keeping the cup cradled in one hand, she waits for the screen to light up and then finds the internet browser icon, clicks on it.

Castle is out shopping. He asked her to come along - whined for her to come along, really - but she went running this morning and she can still feel it in her legs. And of course his plaintive tone did nothing to convince her.

She sips on her coffee and then sets the cup down cautiously, freeing her hands so she can type. Manhattan apartment for rent.

A bunch of websites immediately comes up and she sifts through them, skipping the ones mentioning roommates and holiday rentals. She pulls up the more interesting ones, starts filling the search criteria without thinking. Then she realizes she's describing her old apartment and sighs, tries to be more flexible as she goes through the form again.

She probably won't be able to find another place like her old one. Her rent wasn't exactly cheap, but considering the location and the amount of space she had - it was a very decent deal. And she loved the raw look of it, the exposed beams. Ah, well. She'll take what she can get.

Kate grabs the notebook and pen that she bought at the nearby bookstore and she starts making notes about possible rentals. She likes that part, the looking and comparing and narrowing down her options, and she's still very much absorbed in it when she hears the front door open.

The sound takes a second to register. She looks up and instinctively closes notebook, browser and laptop, nearly spills her coffee as she pushes herself off the couch.

"I'm back!" Castle announces brightly from the hallway, and Beckett grabs her cup and goes to meet him.

She finds him in the kitchen, storing more food in the fridge that they can eat in a week. He looks more relaxed than earlier though, the restlessness gone from his eyes, so she refrains from commenting. When he's done he turns to her with that easy smile of his, and he steps in close for a kiss.

She lets him have it, startled, but the moment his tongue darts past her lips she's lifting up against him, a hum caught in her mouth, her arm snaking around his neck.

"Mmm, coffee-flavored. I like," he grins into her lips before he breaks away, leaves her breathless and wanting. He strokes his thumb to her mouth, his eyes a deep, tender blue. "I wanna take you out," he says.

Out? "What, like a date?"

"Like a date," he confirms, looking pleased with himself. It's ridiculous the way her insides flip. "There's this cute little Greek restaurant I passed on the way back - it's only been there for two years and I'm dying to try it. Think about it, Beckett. Lamb, moussaka, that delicious wine I forget the name of, you in that green dress-"

And she's supposed to dress up. Um. Okay. Part of her wants to tell him he doesn't have to do this, doesn't need to seduce her when she's already in love with him, but he seems so-

Happy. And a little nervous too, but it's been a while since she's seen him in such a good mood. Kate presses her lips together, gives him a smile. "Sounds good."

He beams back at her. "Excellent. Meet me at the door in an hour then." She must look surprised because he adds, "I know it doesn't look like it, but Beckett - all that rugged handsomeness takes time."

She breathes out a laugh, shaking her head at him, and her stomach flutters - anticipation or apprehension, it's hard to tell.

Her bras all look weird with the dress. Her hair refuses to do what she wants. She can't manage to tug the zipper all the way up.

Beckett growls at her reflection and spins around, flops down on the bed. Phantom pain flickers in her thigh. Great. Just great. She closes her eyes and gives herself a minute to wholeheartedly hate Castle - he's the one responsible for all this, buying her a dress, asking her out like they're goddamn teenagers. Then she takes a deep breath and slowly sits up.

She can do this. She's not going to let Jerry Tyson win. No way.

So her hair is too short - she will just let it loose, maybe pin a few strands up. Yes. That will work nicely. Next is the deep v neckline of the dress, the way it uncovers the old bullet scar. She carefully dabs foundation onto the uneven skin, examines herself in the mirror from different angles. It doesn't show that much; in fact she'll probably be the only one to notice.

Good. Kate does her make-up, resolutely ignoring the fact that she'll have to ask Castle to zip her up - he's probably going to love that anyway. The bathroom light falls gently on her face, a little too flattering maybe, but it's what she needs right now. She gives a strained smile to her reflection and it makes her realize how tense she is.

Jeez. Relax, Beckett. It's only a date.

With Castle. A date with Castle.

Why does she feel like the stakes are so high? He loves her, and she loves him. There are no obligations here, nothing for her to be worried about. Annoyed with herself, Kate turns to the closet and grabs the elegant black coat they bought together a couple weeks ago. The rich, heavy fabric makes her feel beautiful, but she stills when her eyes land on her bare feet.

Shit, shoes. She doesn't have heels. Oh, there are the boots Castle got for her - but they've got such small heels, not exactly the sexy kind, and they'll never go with the dress anyway. Crap.

She opens the closet wide, her gaze roaming the shelves desperately as if shoes will miraculously appear out of nowhere, and that's when she notices the grey box that sits on the bottom shelf. The grey box that she hasn't seen before - the grey box that wasn't here yesterday.

He didn't-?

He did.

Kate drops the lid of the box on the floor and carefully, reverently lifts out a dark green pump with a slim ankle strap.

Gorgeous.

Those are killer heels, and her legs are going to hurt after a few minutes in them. But it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter because the moment she slips her feet inside, ties the straps and takes a breathless step, she feels like Detective Kate Beckett again.

And Castle.

Castle knew.